


hurry home (to you)

by Midna_Ronoa



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mentions of alcoholism, Minor Character Death, Modern Thedas, Past Drug Use, Past Sexual Abuse, mentions of BDSM, one of these is not like the others, this is fluffier than it looks I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midna_Ronoa/pseuds/Midna_Ronoa
Summary: A study of Dorian's new living space and those who call it home.
Relationships: Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull/Cullen Rutherford, The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 14
Kudos: 45





	hurry home (to you)

**Author's Note:**

> It’s December the 4th in Spain already, so happy Dragon Age day!  
> I had the idea for this one-shot back in summer, and finally being able to write it has been such a delight. A huge shoutout to [ redluna ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna) and [ thecityofthefireflies ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecityofthefireflies/pseuds/thecityofthefireflies) for all the cheering they’ve done on Tumblr, you two are amazing <33
> 
> Betaed by the always great [ 3SpidersWithAPen ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/3SpidersWithAPen/pseuds/3SpidersWithAPen)
> 
> Title taken from The National’s “Slow Show”, which I feel fits Dorian’s POV here like a glove.
> 
> _I wanna hurry home to you  
>  Put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up  
> So you can put a blue ribbon on my brain  
> God, I'm very, very frightened, I'll overdo it. _

A thousand eyes stare from behind the glass. A thousand eyes, trapped in wooden frames, sectioned into smaller batches in each square. Dorian can feel them on the back of his neck, following him across the dim-lit hallway.

They follow him down the stairs, the grey morning light giving the crystal a quicksilver like gleam, the happy and warm moments trapped underneath feeling like a mockery to his sleep-sluggish brain.

He forces himself to pause, three steps to the bottom, two away from the landing: a new addition to the collection. Wooden edges still shiny, glass still clear—not a single dust speck on sight. Bull beams from inside, eye closed, arm around Dorian´s shoulder. Cullen’s on his other side, lips firmly pressed to Dorian’s cheek, the smile that seems about to bloom making his eyes crinkle shut.

Dorian in the renaissance-fair at dusk stares back at Dorian in his pyjamas at dawn. Perfectly lined grey eyes seem to pierce into his soul and, for a beat, the voice that keeps telling Dorian he doesn’t belong here shuts up.

The smell of burning toast makes him take a step back, three down, four across the hallway, two to the right, and one into the kitchen.

Bull is standing there, frilly pink apron crookedly tied around his waist as he fumbles with a plate full of charred toast in one hand while the other searches for the stop button on the coffee maker. Cullen must have already left for work. Dorian gets there first; a loud click precedes the wheeze of hot air coming from the machine to cease.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Bull grins down at him, pressing a loud smooch onto the top of his head.

Dorian barely manages to repress an annoyed but fond huff of breath, “Good morning to you too.”

* * *

The Question has been living in the back of his brain for a while now. It’s been spreading its roots, festering like a thick-leaved weed in the middle of an unkempt garden, waiting for months to bloom.

The moment Dorian blurts it out it’s not the moment he had been saving it for. He wanted to be prepared, completely psyched up and in an utterly relaxed state of mind before he could even _dare_ muster the courage to say it out loud.

“Does Bull expect me to do the same things he does to you in the bedroom?”

Cullen’s whole face turns pink. His breath hitches for a second and he hurriedly pulls the sleeves of his woollen red jumper down, as if they could make Dorian forget the rope marks and indentation that coil up his pale arms, thick coral snakes of an oddly tantalizing allure. Dorian smiles, Cullen’s timidness is always delightful, the way he finds a way of feeling shy after having been seen with far more compromising marks on far more compromising places.

“I—uh, well I don’t think he _expects_ anything…not in that department.”

“Look, Cullen dear, you don’t have to try and—lighten things up just to avoid me the heartbreak. I know men like Bull want things when they _fuck_ , I know you do too, mind you, but I’d much rather know ahead of time. Getting trussed up and beaten around is not something I’m into, but it seems like to some people is enjoyable so I can always—”

“Dorian, wait!” Cullen’s words stop him dead in his tracks.

He’s been walking away, putting distance in between himself and Cullen as he kept on talking, barricading his body away behind the five remaining unpacked book-crates still sitting in the middle of the room they are trying to turn into his study. His throat is closing up, and if his heart has sped up, well, it’s only an expected reaction isn’t it? He has not been wondering this for an eternity just to be met with vague answers.

“Dorian…What did they do to you?” Cullen’s tone is so laced up with concern that it might just as well be dressed in a corset and bound to their bed. Amber eyes heavily creased with worry zero completely on him. Dorian can hear the soft drag of Cullen’s worn socks against hardwood as he begins walking towards him, slowly, as if approaching a tiny skittish creature.

“Oh, don’t you ‘poor Dorian’ me!” He blows a hot gust of air out of his nose, cocking his head up in the most defiant manner he can muster. “I know people want things from sex. I have been with enough men to _know_ what to expect, so you don’t have to—to _coddle_ me.”

For Lucius, it had been his eyes. He was unable to look into Dorian’s eyes during their encounters, he was young, didn’t think much of it. Until David.

For him, it had been force. Tugging him around like an object, forcefully holding him against the mattress when, most days, all Dorian wanted had been gentleness. He thought maybe it was something expected out of their—trysts, they must had been secret for a reason.

Nico had been rougher, angrier. He doesn’t like thinking about him—about what he ordered him to do.

Rilienus had not been especially picky, nor bossy. Maybe that’s why Dorian still has fond memories of him, he’s glad Halward kept him from seeing Rilienus again. Dorian’s sure he would have found out something, anything, that turned Rilienus into a beast. He’s glad he still remembers him as a man. As a lover.

Dorian hears an exhalation close to him. Cullen’s paused, boxes to his back, still a couple of steps away from Dorian, a distance he can breach with no problem if needed, but that gives them both enough space—for what, Dorian does not know.

Cullen seems to be thinking hard about something before he starts speaking again, tone uncertain, voice steady, “I’ve never been very enthusiastic about sex, you know. At first, I thought it was because of the Order, or my education—turns out there’s just a lot of people like me out there.”

Dorian breathes out a small, “Oh.”

Cullen keeps on talking, gaze fixed on him, “When I was stationed in Kinloch…something terrible happened. Not only to all those people, but to me, I—for many years after I thought it had been ruined for me…sex.”

His brain’s racing, trying to catalogue everything it has archived on the Kinloch Hold incident, “Cullen— _amatus,_ I really don’t want you to revive something that’s painful to you. If I’ve touched on a sensitive topic, I’ll let it drop and I—”

“No,” Cullen shakes his head, a sad smile on his soft pink lips, Dorian really wants to hug him, or run, or kiss him—or both. “You already know about Kirkwall and the lyrium. It’s only fair you also learn about this—not fair, important.”

Dorian’s aware of how hard he’s clutching his own fist, of how his teeth have already found his lower lip. He nods, slowly, feels his shoulders relax as Cullen clears his throat, hand coming to scratch the back of his neck before he continues, “I—well you know what came after Kinloch. I didn’t have many successful relationships during those ten years, romantic or—of any other kind. You’ve probably heard stories about how I behaved so—I really don’t want to turn this into some kind of pity party,” he snorts, a crooked smile drawing his scar up. “When the Inquisition took me in…when I met Bull, I was not in a good place.”

“To put it lightly,” Dorian interjects, which makes him almost immediately want to chew his tongue off. _Stupid_ , _tactless fool_

Warm rough laughter bubbles out of Cullen’s lips, making him bow forwards slightly, hand coming up to brush his stubble. It makes Dorian sigh with relief. He never could have thought a sound could be so soothing.

“Yes…that’s a way of putting it. I really was not looking for anything, romantically speaking. One-night stands are not for me, and it was all everyone at Skyhold seemed to want.”

“Well, from what I heard, Cadash has always been very into you, my dear,” he smiles, glad that he can see Cullen blush, the bob of his throat a testament to the shyness he’s probably trying to swallow down before he can go on.

“Maker, I—well, yes Bull had to tell me about that after a while too…hm, thing is, we started hanging out, just to exercise and have coffee and he always was so— _kind_ to me, so very understanding and open about everything. After all the secretiveness in the Order it was incredibly baffling.”

“Ah yes, I still can remember how he approached me about joining you two that night—”

“Sweet Andraste in her holy bower, please—don’t…I’ve already apologised enough to others about that.”

Dorian doesn’t think there’s anything he has to apologise for. Bull was anything but conventional, and telling Dorian to accompany them to their room while on a business trip had raised more than one eyebrow at their shared dinner table. The way he had expected just sex and a pat on the back and got so much _more_ , well, if putting up with Sera and Blackwall’s jabs during breakfast was all the price he would have to pay, he’d pay it tenfold again.

“What I wanted to say is he always was very straightforward about what he liked. And about what he thought I would like…and he never forced me into anything, he was always so…” Cullen trails off, eyes fixed somewhere in the knots and folds of the green jute carpet under their feet. An infinite tangle of complicated knots and irregular shapes. The images it must be conjuring in Cullen’s mind are no secret to Dorian.

“Gentle?”

A nod, slow, followed by a low chuckle, “He is not always gentle in the bedroom, mind you.”

It makes Dorian laugh too. “Just when you beg him prettily?” The image is certainly alluring.

“Please stop! This is a serious matter, I really wanted to put you at ease about—” Cullen flails his arms in the air, as if trying to encompass much more than the talking he’s been doing will allow.

“What if I told you you already have?” Dorian asks. He closes the distance this time, shaking his head before he softly cups Cullen’s jaw.

“I have?”

He nods again, appreciating the rosiness of Cullen’s face. The pale blonde stubble that crawls up his cheeks, the only area not overtaken by the heat being the dark rimming under his eyes.

“Very effectively, if I must say so.”

The joining of their lips is slow, gentle.

* * *

“When did Cullen leave the Order?” Dorian asks next, draped over Bull’s lap, a thick burgundy volume on magical theory held aloft over his head.

He’s found out that questions are OK in this house. He’s found out that he can ask about dinner, past relationships or the weather, and that he’ll receive an answer with a modicum of truth in it; no cold hard stares or frowns of distaste for his curiosity. Just an unbidden openness that feels exhilarating.

“Three? Four? Years ago,” Bull scrunches up his nose, hand lifting to scratch the base of his horn as he peers down at Dorian. “What have you got running on that pretty head of yours?”

He sighs, always the dramatist, leisurely pulling his plaited bookmark inside the tome, no more reading for him this morning.

“Just—intrigued.”

Bull raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Fine,” Dorian shrugs, languorously spreading his arms up like a lazy cat, just to catch Bull’s face in between his finely manicured hands. “Why does he keep attending the Chantry? Cassandra’s fundraisers, potlucks and whatnot I can understand, but why keep attending services to a faith that has let him down so many times?”

Warm sunlight streams through the thin pink curtains of the living room, the gentle midday breeze caressing his half-naked body. It looks as if he’s holding a warmed marble statue for a second, were it not for the steady beat of Bull’s heart under his fingertips, Dorian would have thought he was back at Minrathous, trapped in the library two blocks away from the Argent Spire—happy in his daydreams, miserable at heart.

“Can I answer you with another question?” Bull asks, always the tease, the broad smile that presses against Dorian’s fingers breaking the spell—bringing him back to the present, to _their_ present.

“I would say no, as it is a very cheap trick on your part—but you’re going to do it either way, so,” he sighs heavily, letting go of Bull’s face to drape the back of his right hand against his own forehead. “Go on.”

“Did you bring back anything from Tevinter to the South that was good? Something that made you happy despite all the shit you had to go through up there?”

“Well, a bottle of good wine never hurt…”

Bull raises an eyebrow at him once again.

“Fine!” Dorian lets go of Bull’s face, heaving himself up to sit cross-legged next to him, head tilted up in concentration.

“Don’t break your skull.”

“Fuck you.” Dorian kicks Bull on the leg without much force, trying to focus.

A few seconds pass, maybe minutes. Bull’s hands are working miracles on his left foot, now sitting lopsided over Bull’s thick thigh, fingers digging in between bones and muscle, little sounds that would be imperceptible to himself were it not for the ruffle of his moustache fluttering out of his lips.

“I think,” Dorian manages to articulate, letting a stuttering breath out as Bull lets go, “my books, maybe.” Fleeting images of that same library from before. Colossal statues of Qunari left to gather dust in between ancient shelves, elven ones never far behind, outstretched delicate but firm arms used to pile up books just like flesh and bone elves were used Ages ago outside those halls. Human ones always on display, always away from parchment and quill. “All of those hard drives full of my research, even if some of it has grown quite outdated but—even if father helped with a lot of those…I still keep them.”

Bull’s hum of assent is the only thing breaking the silence. A car passes by, echoing barks indicate that their neighbour’s dog, the one Cullen pets at any given chance, is chasing it down the street.

“You asked about Cullen’s Chantry, but not directly about me and the Qun.” Dorian’s about to interrupt Bull but gets stopped by a raised finger, his lopsided smirk unwavering. “I know why you didn’t, mind you. But you can, another time, it’s not as if there’s much to tell.”

It’s a lie, and even though he knows that Bull’s widening smile is due to how Dorian must be frowning, he allows Bull to continue.

“Cullen entered the Order when he was very young, and, even before that, it was always there, in the margins, lingering.” From what Dorian knows from the South and its relationship to the Chantry, that’s an understatement, to say the least. “Even if he reckons that what he did was monstrous, and even if he knows he won’t be able to look at it the same way, there’s a whole system behind what he did, what he was told to do, it’s not something inherent to the Chant. The Chantry, the Institution, how it’s executed, might be pretty shady, bound to crumble. The beliefs though, the foundation? That shit’s solid.”

“The Qun, is it the same to you?” Dorian crawls a little closer to Bull; his smile has wavered, his stare turned pensive.

“Shit, I guess,” Bull says shrugging, a little contented hum rumbling against Dorian’s body the moment he decides to press a bit closer to Bull.

“But you’ll tell me about it—some other day?” he doesn’t want to sound as hesitant as he does, hand grasping Bull’s arm maybe a bit tighter than he intended to.

Bull hums again, arm encircling Dorian’s waist to hoist him up and onto his lap once more, slender bare legs bracketing fat-padded sturdy hips covered in soft cotton pantaloons. “Yeah, sure. Some other day, I promise.” Bull smiles, and Dorian _knows_ in an almost painful way, he will.

The kisses that come next are as warm as sunlight and as gentle as silk, Bull’s hands steady in a way Dorian’s breath and pulse are not.

There’re no thoughts of marble or dusty wooden selves anymore, just soft skin and rough stubble and—

The lock of the door turning open almost makes him jump out of Bull’s lap and straight into the coffee table.

“Cassandra has returned us the books you leant her!” Comes Cullen’s voice from the hall.

The door clicks close behind him, no other voice follows, and Dorian almost immediately relaxes against Bull. He can feel Bull smiling against the crook of his neck, one of his hands coming to Dorian’s butt to right up his body so that he can kiss him again, a wicked glint on his grey-green eye.

“Maker.” Dorian hears the groan and knows the expression Cullen’s making without turning around. “I live in a den of sin.”

“ _Oh_ , Father, won’t you forgive us?” Dorian asks, in the sultriest tone he can manage, slowly turning around to let his arms curl around Bull’s neck, back pressed against his torso. “What must we do to atone for our sins?”

Cullen swallows, hard, hands fumbling with the zipper of his coat, eyes intently fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Bull’s horns.

“I heard he likes kneeling, a _lot_ ,” Bull punctuates his statement with the sudden rocking of his hips. It makes Dorian’s body undulate, up and down. Of course, he’s getting off to this.

“This—I—I want both of you to know that this is incredibly stupid,” Cullen punctuates the word by throwing his parka over the closest chair, “and shameful!”

“It’s also super hot,” Bull rumbles.

“Stupid! And! Shameful!” Next come his woolly cardigan and shirt. They have to wait a bit longer for his belt and pants.

By the time they are done, and Dorian’s laying on the rug, body sated and sweaty, a different kind of hunger flaring, his head propped on Cullen’s splayed leg that’s barely clinging to the sofa, he thinks that, maybe, everything in this house is, indeed, gentle and warm.

* * *

It is the ringing what startles him awake. Not the reverberation of thunder on the street, of the heavy rain falling like pebbles against the windowpane—it’s the hollow ringing of their landline across the hallway, inside the study.

“I’ll get it,” Cullen mumbles against the nape of Dorian’s neck, making him stick even closer to Bull’s body at the loss of warmth on his back, a living furnace of their own.

He feels the shaking next, a strong hand on his shoulder trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Dorian, love, it’s for you,” Cullen’s voice is back, this time clearer but gentle, oh so gentle.

“If it’s from Skyhold, you can tell Cadash she can shove her urgent—” As his body leaves Bull’s side and he gets rid of the covers, he doesn’t get to finish the sentence.

The small reading light on Cullen’s bedside table is lit, casting a soft orange glow over the room that only helps highlight the concern etched onto his every feature. Dorian’s brows probably mirror Cullen’s as he outstretches his hand, the telephone feeling cold and heavy.

“It’s your mother,” Cullen says, the glint of worry in his eyes betraying his whole firm demeanour.

Aquinea’s voice sounds as cold as the plastic casing touching his ear, methodical and to the point.

An accident.

Unknown cause.

Funeral in two days.

Hurry to Minrathous.

Plane ticket already bought.

Do not bring company is not an explicit message, but it is one that comes across.

He must tell them at some point. He doesn’t know how or in what tone. Just that at some point it’s over, Bull sitting on his side, Dorian’s face pressed against his torso as Cullen holds his hand; phone long forgotten somewhere over the mattress.

He can hear them praying. Both.

Bull’s lips are forming the words, not letting them out, when Dorian looks up, he can see them moving, eye closed. Cullen’s whispering against the naked skin of his back, words in Trade Dorian has heard him whisper before.

“ _O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places…”_

When the day came, he thought he’d be elated. Pop the biggest champagne bottle they could find and arrange the gayest and most savage party that could be arranged.

Now that the day has come, he doesn’t know how to feel. There’s no bubbliness in there, no wish to laugh or feel superior to a man who’s already gone—no tears to cry for him either. Just emptiness, an utter and complete void.

The storm keeps raging outside, the wind picking up speed as a flash of lightning illuminates the room briefly, followed by the rolling crash of thunder.

He can feel it inside of him, the echo of thunder roaring in the back of his head, resonating through his body, which feels hollow, hollow, hollow…

* * *

The cold has seeped into his bones. By the time he gets rid of his dripping trench coat he feels as if he had gotten rid of a second skin, stuck to his own, refusing to part until the season was right. His boots get kicked out next, and as he gets to the kitchen and leaves his still wet suitcase there, he knows something’s not right.

A stew is still simmering on the fire, the smell of baked goods coming from the oven, and by the way the table is set he _knows_ they were waiting for him.

Then he hears a noise upstairs, faint, almost imperceptible. It comes again, stronger, and with a sigh, Dorian realises what’s going on.

He’s climbing the stairs two at a time with a tall glass of water in his hand when he hears the noise again. Dry heaving, stuttering breaths followed by acute whimpers, a soothing deep voice next, intermingling with a much smaller one—Dorian hurries his step. A thousand eyes follow.

Cullen’s sitting on the black tiled floor, his already pale hands clenching the toilet bowl so hard his knuckles threaten to turn porcelain white, as if he let go, he’d plummet down the drain, never to be seen again. 

Bull’s crouching close to him, in a way Dorian _knows_ is hurting his leg, his body close enough to Cullen to provide comfort but far enough not suffocate him, hands gently petting a mane of blonde curls that are sticking to Cullen’s skin like a small colony of tiny eels.

Cullen dives for the bowl again, a horrible gasping breath echoing against the ceramic as Bull tries to hold his head, careful, oh so careful.

Dorian swallows, hard, breathes heavily in and out before he manages to step in. The eyes are still looking.

“I see you two started celebrating without me. Shame, I could have brought some brandy, maybe even some snacks.”

The reaction is immediate, even Bull looks taken aback, a tired smile on his lips as he turns to greet him, “Hey, big guy.”

Even Cullen, ridiculously noble Cullen, has to pull himself out of the toilet and smile his way, spit still dribbling down the corner of his mouth as his eyes seem to almost be fighting to stay open. “How—how was your trip?” he asks, before a fit of coughing makes him have to duck down again.

Dorian doesn’t really know what overtakes him. It might be having had to deal with his mother for more than a day, or just being too exhausted to be bossed around, but in two resolute steps he gets to where Bull is still squatting, “Bull, please, be a dear and bring the blanket that’s in my study over the armchair.”

Bull looks up, blinks twice before he manages to respond, arms still holding tightly onto Cullen, “I don’t know if that’s a great idea right—”

“ _Amatus_ , I really don’t want to have to take care of your joints later, on top of our dear little lion here, so please. I’ll stay.”

It’s the final words which seem to finally make Bull move. He kisses the top of Cullen’s head before he lets go, Dorian helping him stand, sensing by the hold of his hand how tired he is. How such a pillar of strength to them both can look so vulnerable under the white neon light reflected on the dark tiles, Dorian cannot even begin to grasp.

Bull presses a matching kiss to Dorian’s cheek, “Welcome back,” he says, squeezing Dorian’s hand before he slowly walks away.

The floor feels cold against the wet denim of his pants, he thinks he manages to hide a grimace before Cullen looks up in between panting breaths, his bloodshot copper eyes _somehow_ conveying an amount of impossible care and warmth. Dorian feels the uncontainable urge to hug him.

“Hey.” Dorian doesn’t like how hoarse his own voice sounds, how wobbly.

“Hey yourself.” Cullen’s sounds hoarser, even smaller, as if it were about to break. “You look like shit.”

“Oh, but you look utterly _divine_ , _amatus_. Clearly, you should have more of those devastating seizures of yours more often, that pallor to your skin—breath-taking.”

The tremulous laugh Cullen manages to pull out of his wet lips feels like a small victory. He helps Cullen pick the tall glass of water Dorian’s left on the floor; twice he thinks it’ll slip out and once that all of the contents will spill due to how bad Cullen’s hands are shaking.

“I’m so sorry,” Cullen says a bit later, the empty glass back on the floor and his head resting on Dorian’s arm, his breathing almost back to normal.

Bull’s probably realised he should have checked his pans and pots earlier on, so Dorian doesn’t worry when he hears him hurrying down the steps in between muttered curses. If he takes a bit longer to compose himself, Dorian won’t blame him either.

“The moment you told us that we didn’t have to go pick you up at the airport Bull wanted to make something big for you, and I—I really wanted to help. Seems like running around doing groceries the whole day was what did it,” Cullen snorts looking away, self-deprecation thick as tar heavy in his words

“ _Fasta vass_ , you ridiculously incorrigible man. Last time I checked your episodes happened sporadically and you didn’t have any control over them so—”

“Yes, but—”

Dorian silences him with one of his trademark stares. “No buts! When you suddenly start having control over them, please do apologise profusely for not being able to receive me like royalty, until then,” he takes Cullen hand in his, holds it like he would that of a prince in his childish dreams, and plants a feather-light kiss on it, “you try and take care of yourself. And whenever you can’t, we’ll try and help, hm?”

Cullen’s eyes are glassy, glassier than they were seconds ago, before his cold body was pressed against Dorian, a litany of _OK_ s and _Thank you_ s muttered against his neck accompanied by the minute shaking of his body. Dorian does his best to hold Cullen close, to not cry along when the first sob crawls out of his already abused throat.

Later, when the rain has stopped and Dorian’s rinsing plates with Cullen already tucked in bed, Bull approaches him from behind.

“You OK, _kadan_?” Bull asks, hands coming around Dorian´s waist, his head carefully propped on Dorian’s shoulder, as if Bull was still afraid of accidentally bumping against him with one of his horns.

The last plate Dorian’s been cleaning gets placed on the rack, the cloth he’s used to dry his hands hangs from the sink, as his arms fall limp to his sides.

“No,” Dorian barely gets to whisper, unable to turn around. He can see the tears about to come on his reflection, whatever lies on the other side of the glass in the barely illuminated street, unimportant, insignificant compared to the anxiety he feels clawing up his throat, the bone-deep exhaustion finally dawning on him hours later—days later.

“Wanna talk about it?” Bull hums, undaunted. Dorian can see the glint of his eye in their mirror image, how his body is intentionally bent—to make himself look smaller or because he’s equally tired, Dorian doesn’t know.

“No,” he barely manages to gasp out, shaky, almost a sob.

It would be so easy to pick a bottle from the cabinet and spend the night alone in his study, only his regret to keep him company, not so easy to face a barely there but smiling Cullen the next morning, the sad look Bull sometimes gets when he smells too much alcohol in Dorian’s breath as a bonus.

He doesn’t want to disappoint them. Not them too. Not like father.

Bull simply nods, and doesn’t let go.

* * *

“I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

Dorian has been lounging in a sun-chair for an hour now. “In the garden?” he asks blithely, his long fingers coming up to tip down his expensive-looking sunglasses. “I’ve always been told I cut quite a striking figure under the sun,” his smile is vain, flirty even, but Krem doesn’t fall for it, he’s learnt how to see through this show of smoke and mirrors after all.

Krem has not been making an active effort to talk to him since they got here and Dorian had opened the door, nervously clearing his throat indicating them to get in, while Harding gushed excitedly about how good he looked dressed down to a t-shirt and loose-fitting pants. He truly had not. But seeing how he moved around the Chief and the Commander, how his eyes searched for Krem from time to time, as if looking for approval, or how a little tremor ran through Dorian’s body any time Cullen or Bull dared brush a finger against his skin, had kept Krem on edge the entire day.

“You know what I mean, Dorian.”

He had called him _altus_ once, with contempt, still angry for what they had done to his parents. After learning how Dorian had been living before the Inquisition took him as Head Archivist it had never happened again.

“Oh, then, dear Cremissius, would you care explain to me what you mean?” Dorian curls his legs up a bit, as if granting Krem permission to sit there. He reminds Krem of a big house cat, sitting under the sun and moving its tail to allow its owner permission to sit beside it.

Krem does so with an amused huff of breath, his eyes straying up to see Lace animatedly talking to Cullen about something as they play a round of chess. Bull is nowhere in sight; knowing his own father, he’s probably preparing them enough leftover food containers to feed a small army.

The sunchair creaks under their combined weight, Dorian barely batting his eyelashes as he scratches his goatee. He’s truly doing his best trying to not look faced, even though the way he’s twitched to pull even closer to the backrest as Krem got comfortable has been impossible to miss.

“It’s just,” he wants to phrase this right, not scare the poor man into thinking he dislikes him even more. No act will ever convince Krem that Dorian is not a vain but deeply insecure man; at least, about how those he cares for perceive him. “I always knew that the Chief fancied you. It _really_ surprised me when he hit it off with Cullen instead, you know, especially with the kind of relationship they had.”

“But it was open—their relationship,” Dorian punctuates. Now Krem knows he has his full attention.

“Well yeah, but we both know the number of people Bull had a thing with while it was only the two of them.”

Dorian sighs loudly, biting his lower lip before raising his head in defiance, “What are you trying to get to? Because if you’re implying that I—”

“I’m not trying to imply anything, I just—it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them this happy, and I’m glad it’s thanks to you,” Krem hurries to say.

Dorian’s face relaxes almost immediately, like a crumpled piece of paper falling into a puddle, all of the wrinkles and creases that had been marring his features uncoil along with his body, his eyes on the verge of bulging comically from how intently he’s staring at Krem. “You’re glad that’s because of _me_?”

A long blade of grass finds its way up to his hands, Krem nods as he slowly begins twirling it in between his fingers, eyes fixed on Cullen and Lace, “Yeah. You’re smart, you understand where both of them come from and respect them—fully knowing the kind of stuff they’ve gone through. I think they value that a lot.”

“Go back to talking about how I am so very smart please, I wouldn’t be able to keep listening to you if this conversation stops revolving around me,” Dorian says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “But Mr Aclassi, do please finish telling me about my loving partners.”

Krem’s unsure of _how_ Dorian knows about the boost words like these can give him, so with a huff of breath he continues, “I just wanted to say I’m glad you found each other, I know that finding a place—somewhere you can call home, it’s hard and sometimes will still not feel right but—” He rubs the back of his head nervously, searching for words that won’t make him look like a bigger fool, “I’m glad you’re in the right track. I’m glad that those who helped me can also help you.”

Dorian’s grey eyes get lost for a second, his hand coming up in a friendly wave when Cullen lifts Lace’s Queen from the board with a smug smile, an equally big cat seeking approval by bringing dead bugs his master’s feet. Krem smiles politely and flexes his arm, hoping his girlfriend will find a way to turn the tables.

“Home is quite a big word,” Dorian says after what feels like a small eternity, his words warm like the mild summer breeze that ruffles the pointy tufts of his hair. “Did Bull make this house home to you, Cremissius?”

“Yeah,” he nods without missing a beat, “Cullen did a lot too, during the last years.”

Krem smiles, remembering long nights spent studying to wake up to a warm thermos of coffee, warm sweaters full of holes knitted with shaky fingers, fingers that would, later on, help him tame his hair into a proper coif and would soothe Bull back to sleep when the terrors got bad and he felt powerless to grasp a way of helping.

Dorian nods. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never felt more welcome anywhere,” he laughs, in a way that, for once, doesn’t feel fake nor forced—just _free_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! If you enjoyed consider leaving a comment or kudos, they’d truly make my day :D
> 
> I’ll take this chance to thank everyone who has read me along this year on the DA fandom, since I began posting fics for it on 2019 around this date. Y’all rock! I hope that what I do has helped you along 2020 as much as it has helped me. I definitely wouldn’t have written as much as I have if it hadn't been for you!
> 
> I really want to post something else before the year’s over, so finger’s crossed for good brain days and for my Master’s degree to cut me some slack.
> 
> You can find me on [ Tumblr ](https://midwrites.tumblr.com/)!


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